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  Pamela could no longer suppress her mirth. "Oh, Brandi, you're anything but pathetic," she said, laughing. "You're a beautiful, vibrant young woman." Seizing the companionability of the moment, Pamela broached the very subject that continually plagued her. "Kenton mentioned that, according to Ardsley, that very handsome Lord Gallister has been calling on you daily."

  "Hmm? Oh, Lord Gallister. Yes, he's visited Townsbourne several times." Her mind already racing onward, Brandi abandoned the cleansing of her gown, squinting at a point beyond the gazebo. "Do you think we should suggest to Herbert that he add another layer of those lovely white stones to the rock garden? I noticed that some of the current ones are beginning to lose their luster."

  "That could be because you're always drippin' stream water all over them," came a gruff nearby voice.

  "Oh, Herbert!" Brandi sprang up and rushed over to the manor's head gardener. "I'm so glad you overheard my suggestion! What do you think of the idea?"

  "That depends." Herbert scowled, his rankled tone belied by the affectionate gleam in his eyes. "Are you gonna keep fishin' and wreckin' my rock garden with stream water?"

  Brandi attempted a sheepish look. "I'll try not to."

  "Humph." Herbert dragged a hand through his unruly paying hair. "All right. I'll collect a few more of those stones you like so much. But only a few! If you ruin this batch ..."

  "Oh, thank you!" Brandi hugged him.

  "Does Ardsley know you've been frolicking in the stream again?" Pamela interjected tentatively.

  Herbert's gaze darted to Brandi's anxious one. "The fact is, Your Grace, that rock damage could have been caused by lots of things," he hedged. "Rain, sun—"

  "I understand, Herbert." Pamela sighed. "How very well I understand."

  "Pamela, please don't tell Papa." Brandi gripped her friend's hands. "He'll be terribly upset. I've finally convinced him I'm trying to become a lady."

  With a cough that suspiciously resembled a chuckle, Herbert ambled off.

  "And are you, Brandi?" Pamela asked softly. "Are you truly trying to become a lady?"

  Brandi lowered her gaze. "Honestly? I don't think it's possible."

  "But why, darling? You're lovely and warmhearted and vivacious. And I'm far from the only one who thinks so. Even you can't help but notice the way gentlemen stare at you, the admiration in their eyes. Why, 'tis more than two years—indeed three Seasons—since you made your debut, yet men continue to fawn at your feet."

  Brandi shuddered as if she'd just swallowed a worm. "They disgust me."

  "For what reason? Ardsley says they all behave like proper suitors when they call. And my own eyes tell me that many of them are utterly charming, not to mention handsome and thoughtful. Surely one of them—"

  "Proper. Charming. Yes, they are that," Brandi interrupted. "And they want someone equally proper and charming on their arm. I can't be that someone." Brandi looked beseechingly at Pamela. "I just can't."

  The duchess's eyes clouded. "Brandi, you're twenty years old. You can't remain a frolicking child forever."

  "Unfortunately, that's true."

  Gently, Pamela smoothed Brandi's downcast head. "Why is the thought of growing up so abhorrent to you? You're brimming with love and life. Surely you want a home and children of your own."

  A mournful sigh. "I do. But not at the expense of relinquishing all I find such joy in savoring."

  "You make it sound as if you'd be imprisoned! You needn't relinquish everything, darling. Oh, I imagine you'll have to forgo such activities as splashing in the stream without your stockings. But your gardening, your riding— albeit with a proper sidesaddle rather than astride—those things you can still do."

  Unappeased, Brandi stared contemplatively at the ground. "Why did you marry Kenton?" she blurted at last.

  "Pardon me?" Pamela blinked at the sudden change in subject.

  Sitting up, Brandi turned uncertain, anguished eyes to her friend. "Pamela, I never knew my own mother; she died in childbirth. In all ways but blood, you've filled her role, and I love you as if I were your natural child."

  Pamela's eyes misted. "You're the daughter I never had," she managed. "Your happiness means as much to me as if I'd borne you myself."

  "I know that. Just as I know you. We're very different, you and I. However in several ways—boundless devotion to those we love, a deep attachment to Emerald Manor—in ways such as that, we are much the same. Both of us being women, we were raised with the knowledge that we would someday marry and bear children. And, both of us being tenderhearted, we each had dreams of the man who would one day share our life. What I'm asking you now is, how did you recognize Kenton as that man? What reason—other than duty—made you choose him as your husband?"

  A tender smile. "That question requires no pondering. I wed Kenton because I was desperately in love with him. And., one and thirty years later, I still am."

  "Kenton feels the same way. He adores you; 'tis obvious in the way he looks at you. Just as your love is obvious in the way you come alive when you're beside him. You're two halves of a whole, Pamela, and the love between you is very special and quite miraculous."

  "I won't disagree," Pamela said in a quiet, fervent tone. "Kenton is my heart and my soul. Without him, I wouldn't want to live."

  "Precisely as I would wish to feel were I in your position." Brandi's lips trembled. "But I'm not. No man has ever awakened my heart as such. Not Lord Gallister, nor any of my other gentlemen callers. I feel absolutely nothing when I'm with them, not even a flutter. So how can I take the step Papa wants me to take—consider marriage to a man I don't love and know inherently I never will? The answer to that is, I cannot." She lowered her lashes. "I'm sorry, Pamela. Truly I am. I loathe disappointing you, Kenton, and Papa. But evidently, between my unorthodox pastimes and my unfulfilled romantic notions, I'm destined to remain alone."

  Pamela studied Brandi's burnished head thoughtfully, assailed by a relentless suspicion—spawned long years ago—that stubbornly refused to be silenced. "You said you had dreams. Tell me, what sort of man did you dream of?"

  A small smile. "One who reveled in my spirit and rejoiced in my unladylike diversions. One whose passion for challenge matched my own. One who loved me for who I am, not for the fictitious creature he yearned I become."

  "I see."

  "You see, but can you understand?"

  "Better than you realize," Pamela responded evenly, with the barest hint of a twinkle. "Brandi, contrary to what you've concluded, I promise you are not destined to remain alone. The man of whom you dream does exist—I can see him as clearly as if he were standing before me. And he is someone special, someone rare. All that remains is for you to discover each other, which will happen in its own time— a time I suspect is not too far off."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "Trust me, darling; I am." Pamela stretched, glancing idly toward the stables. "It just occurred to me that you haven't exercised Poseidon today."

  Brandi's head came up in a flash. "I completely forgot. Of course! Quentin would never forgive me if I neglected his stallion!"

  "Knowing my son, I suspect that's true," Pamela concurred, her gaze once again fixed on Brandi. "Which reminds me, you've still received no further word from Quentin?"

  Joy fled Brandi's face. "Not since that letter I showed you last month. The poor mail-coach driver—I badger him each time I see him. But, thus far, nothing."

  "Letters from the mainland have been erratic, at best," Pamela murmured aloud, consoling herself and Brandi simultaneously. "I only pray . . ."

  "Quentin is fine." Brandi knotted her fists in her gown. "I'd know if he weren't. He'll be home any day now."

  "We can't be certain of that, darling. Just because the Duke of Wellington is returning to England doesn't mean Quentin intends to accompany him."

  "That's exactly what it means. Quentin vowed to stay away only until the war was over. Well, Napoleon is safely at Elba. Therefore, Quentin's arrival in the Cotswolds is imminent." Shoulders squared defiantly, Brandi gathered up her skirts and rose. "I'd best exercise Poseidon. It's already past noon; soon the sun will be too strong for us to indulge in one of our breakneck gallops."

  "Of course, darling, go ahead." Feigning innocence, Pamela waved Brandi off, more certain than ever that the wondrous possibility she was contemplating did indeed hover on the brink of reality.

  Now it was up to God and fate.

  Colverton Manor

  Gone.

  Desmond stared down at the empty drawer, his hands shaking with the shock of discovery.

  How could that be? he thought, wildly groping for an answer. No one knew of its existence.

  Like a man possessed, he began flinging things from every corner of his nightstand, not pausing until it was empty.

  He slammed the final drawer to the floor, his breath coming in shallow pants, sweat beading his forehead. There had to be a logical explanation for this. There had to be.

  "You won't find them, son."

  Kenton Steel, the Duke of Colverton, leaned back against Desmond's closed bedchamber door and regarded his firstborn through tormented eyes.

  "Father?" Desmond's head snapped around, and he fought to control his mounting terror.

  "Why, Desmond? Why in God's name would you do such a thing?"

  "I don't understand."

  "Don't insult me. I'm not guessing; I have proof. The only facts missing are why and with whom?"

  Kenton's final query struck home, and Desmond's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'with whom'?"

  "You're not clever enough to have managed this alone. Who assisted you?"

  "Oh, I see," Desmond returned with biting sarcasm. "I'm apparently not even a praiseworthy scoundrel."

  "Praiseworthy?" Kenton's fists clenched at his sides. "Are you mad? What you did was despicable!" His appalled gaze raked Desmond, searching for a man who didn't exist. "And even now you evade my questions, refuse to explain your duplicity. Well, it matters not. There is no explanation you could give that would alter my decision."

  Desmond went very still. "What actions do you intend to take?"

  "You've shattered my faith—along with the few illusions I had left, where you're concerned. To be blunt, I cannot confer my holdings or my legacy to a man I do not trust."

  Resentment pumped hotly through Desmond's veins. "As opposed to a man you can trust, like your beloved Quentin."

  A muscle worked in Kenton's jaw—his only overt reaction to Desmond's barb. "I intend to ensure that you're helpless to indulge in such reprehensible behavior again. Not only while I'm alive, but after. I'm changing the terms of my will."

  Colors exploded in Desmond's head. He uttered a vicious oath, kicking the nightstand drawer from his path. "Changing your will? In what manner, or need I ask? Quentin will now inherit everything—just as your precious Pamela has always prayed he would."

  "Quentin has nothing to do with my decision."

  "Don't expect me to believe that!" Desmond stalked across the room, flinging open the door with such impact that it struck the wall, leaving its imprint on the plaster. "Quentin might be in Spain, but his ghost is here. Every hour of every day. Haunting me with his presence. I give up. Change your bloody will. Leave it all to Pamela's son. I don't give a damn anymore."

  He strode into the hallway, colliding with Bentley, Colverton's long-standing butler, just outside the room.

  "Pardon me, my lord," Bentley murmured at once, smoothing his impeccably crisp uniform. "But I heard a commotion and—"

  "It doesn't matter, Bentley," Desmond interrupted, waving the butler off. "You know more of what transpires at Colverton than I do. You're also in better favor." Sidestepping Bentley, Desmond strode toward the stairs. "In fact, you too will probably inherit a portion of what was originally mine."

  Bentley stared speechlessly after Desmond, his head snapping around as the duke emerged, his stance and expression bleak.

  "Can I do anything, Your Grace?"

  Defeatedly, Kenton rubbed his eyes. "I love both my sons, Bentley. I always have."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Lord alone knows where I went wrong."

  "Master Desmond lost his mother quite young, sir,"

  Bentley suggested with the unprecedented familiarity afforded to him alone. "He doesn't truly remember her"—he tactfully cleared his throat—"or the fact that your marriage was an arranged one. He sees only the magnitude of feeling that exists between you and the present duchess. I believe that to be at the root of his resentments."

  "Pamela has worn herself out for years, trying . . ."

  "I agree, Your Grace. But self-doubt is often blinding— and destructive. Don't blame yourself, or the duchess. The problem lies with Master Desmond himself."

  Kenton nodded bleakly. "Just the same, I cannot allow his jealousy and weakness to damage others."

  "No, sir."

  "Contact Hendrick," the duke instructed with sad resignation. "Summon him to Colverton posthaste. Advise him that my will is to be amended. Effective immediately."

  "At once, Your Grace." Turning on his heel, Bentley moved off purposefully.

  "Bentley?"

  The butler paused halfway down the hall. "Sir?"

  "Say nothing of this to anyone. Not even Pamela."

  With an offended sniff, Bentley continued on his way. "That goes without saying, Your Grace."

  Quiet male voices greeted Pamela as she entered Colverton the following evening—not a welcome reception given how exhausted she was. After two successive days of rigorous planting, the last thing she wanted was to entertain guests.

  "Good evening, Your Grace." Bentley bowed, taking Pamela's wrap.

  "Good evening, Bentley." She inclined her head quizzically. "Is that Kenton's voice I hear?"

  "Yes, Madam. The duke and Mr. Hendrick are conducting a business meeting."

  "I didn't know Ellard was visiting today. I'll stop in and say hello."

  Bentley cleared his throat. "His Grace and Mr. Hendrick have been closeted in the library for hours. It would seem their discussion is of significant import. Possibly you should postpone your greeting for later."

  Pamela blinked. "Are you implying I wouldn't be welcome?"

  "Thank you for coming on such short notice, Hendrick." The opening of the library door accompanied Kenton's voice.

  "Not at all," Ellard Hendrick replied, strolling out beside Kenton. "When I read your missive yesterday, I saw immediately how urgent the situation was. Hence, I had my clerk clear my schedule so I could spend the entire day at Colverton. I'm relieved we were able to finalize the matter, now you can enjoy some peace of mind." Securing his portfolio, Hendrick headed down the hall. Halfway to his destination, he spied Pamela and hastily abandoned all talk of business. "Pamela, how wonderful to see you," he declared, striding over to kiss her hand. "And what a pleasant surprise; Kenton didn't mention you'd be returning this early."

  "Nor did he mention your upcoming visit." Pamela cast a curious glance at her husband. "Had I known you were coming, I would have made certain to be home."

  "Hendrick's visit came up rather suddenly," Kenton put in. "We had some complicated matters to address."

  "So Bentley told me." Another speculative look, this time at the serene-faced butler. "In any case, won't you stay for supper, Ellard?"

  "I wish I could." Hendrick ran a hand through his silver hair. "Unfortunately, I'm due back in London this evening. So I must be going." He smiled politely. "Another time?"

  "Of course."

  Turning to Kenton, he murmured, "I'll substitute these papers for their predecessors as soon as I reach my office."

  Kenton's jaw set, his voice lowered to a fervent hush. "I, in the interim, will continue to delve into the matter. I want all the facts, Hendrick—every last one."

  "I understand." The solicitor cleared his throat, his tone reverting back to normal. "Good night, Kenton, Pamela." Pamela waited only until Bentley was outside showing Hendrick to his carriage. Then she drew Kenton aside, turning puzzled eyes to his. "What confidential and urgent business did you and Ellard have?"

  "Why do you assume it was confidential?" Kenton straightened his waistcoat, looking as gray and tormented as if he'd just returned from battle.

  "Because Bentley wouldn't allow me near the library." Tenderly, Pamela smoothed her palms over her husband's rigid shoulders, taking in every detail of his haggard state. "It's Desmond, isn't it?"

  Wearily, Kenton nodded, the lines around his eyes stark with sleepless anguish.

  "Won't you tell me what this is about?"

  "It doesn't concern you, Pamela. This is between my son and myself." As if to counter the brusqueness of his retort, Kenton caught his wife's wrist, brought her palm to his lips. "'Tis something I must handle on my own," he added quietly.

  "I understand." Pamela caressed her husband's jaw as if that act alone could ease his distress. "And I don't mean to intrude." She sighed, lowering her gaze. "Lord knows, I'm aware Desmond is your son and not mine; he's spent years reminding me of it. In truth, I've given up trying to change that which is unchangeable. But 'tis you I'm worried about—I cannot bear to see you suffer so. Whatever happened between you and Desmond yesterday is tearing you apart. Is there nothing I can do?"

  "Now, no. Later, perhaps." He squeezed her hand. "Tomorrow, Garrety, my investigator, is due at Colverton, hopefully, to provide me with the missing pieces required in order to put this sordid matter to rest forever. Should he prove unsuccessful, I'll take the situation into my own hands."

  Pamela paled. "Kenton, you're frightening me. This isn't dangerous, is it?"

  "Dangerous?" Kenton shook his head. "I have no reason to believe so."

  By the following afternoon, he believed otherwise.

  Alone in his study, Kenton stared down at the terse message a footman bad delivered to him not ten minutes past. He'd reread it a dozen times, and each time his skin crawled a bit more.

  You're meddling where you don't belong. Should you continue, you'll die and Desmond will pay the price.